


Trophy Husband

by killalla



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fake Marriage, Gaming, M/M, Meme of Interest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/pseuds/killalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never underestimate the allure of the game.  And never fight a land war in Asia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophy Husband

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the POI Kink Meme

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” Reese buckled his seatbelt as the jet that Finch had apparently just chartered that afternoon taxied down the runway in preparation for takeoff.

“Because our new number, David Selvig, is a Senior Vice President with SecCorp and is somewhat inconveniently scheduled to attend an exclusive industry conference in England, where research suggests whatever predicted incident is likely to occur.” Finch already had his laptop out and now called up Selvig’s photograph on screen, along with some images of identification cards and related documents.

“SecCorp is a leader in the kidnap and ransom insurance industry, where most executives are former military, intelligence and law enforcement – you’ll fit right in, far better than I could.” Finch handed him a large manila envelope, which at initial glance contained a passport, wallet and credit cards, and a conference booking confirmation. “Your cover is John Bishop; you are a K & R Consultant with Aegis Group.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” He certainly had the right kind of experience, and could probably provide reasonable anecdotes by changing the names of assets and countries. “But if that’s the case, then why are you going with me?”

“The industry is primarily London based, and this gathering is being held at a regrettably remote location in the countryside, for privacy reasons, I can only assume.” Finch shook his head, almost sadly. “There is no wireless network at the hotel, and even traditional telecommunications are poor, if not downright inaccessible. I’ll need to be on site to ensure that we remain in contact – with each other, the Machine, and Detectives Carter and Fusco, if required. Luckily, although invitations to the conference are limited to a few key companies, partners are welcome to attend.”

“So, you’re going – as my accountant?”

“Not business partners, Mr. Reese.” Finch raised an eyebrow at him in mild annoyance. “Spouses. I’m Harold Cardinal; the now retired Chief Technology Officer for East Africa Marine Cable. We met when you led a team that rescued me from Eyl in Somalia – it was really quite romantic.” Finch’s eyebrow was still quirked, but Reese could have sworn that there was a note of amusement in his voice.

And now, Reese had reached the bottom of the envelope, where he found a small turquoise box, which contained a plain unadorned gold ring. “Finch, do you mean to tell me that you’re going to this conference as my trophy husband?”

Finch held up his hand – he was already wearing a matching one. “After all, John, you have actually rescued me from kidnapping before. It’s shouldn’t be that difficult to act the part.”

***

The conference center was indeed very remote, tucked away in the English countryside, but it was also very nice, and Harold had secured them a two bedroom suite, complete with a balcony overlooking the perfectly manicured grounds. John would be attending all of the same sessions as Selvig, while Harold set up a mobile base of operations.

The wrinkle in the plan occured on the evening of their arrival. They’d only just sat down to dinner when a tall, aristocratic, and aging-but-still-handsome Englishman walked up to the table, took one look at Harold, and exclaimed, “Rommel, you magnificent bastard!”

“I beg your pardon?” Harold looked halfway between flattered and alarmed.

“Gerald Fletcher – call me Gerry.” Fletcher offered his hand. “I was Patton to your Rommel in the last North Africa campaign. Never have I enjoyed being so thoroughly trounced by an opposing commander. When I saw the name on the roster, I hoped it might be you. It’s such a pleasure to meet you in person at last.”

“Of course, I remember the campaign! You did an excellent job, securing a victory at Kasserine Pass in defiance of history.” Harold Cardinal was a far more social character than Harold Finch, and happy to meet a fellow enthusiast. 

“I see you have some space at your table. May I join you?” Fletcher indicated the empty settings. “I actually have a younger colleague who would be delighted to meet you as well.” Hardly waiting for an answer, he waved across the room. “David – come over here! This is our Desert Fox, the famous Harold Cardinal.”

“David Selvig – I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Cardinal.” Selvig had made a beeline for the table, and was now enthusiastically shaking hands. “I was Claude Auchinleck of the British Eighth Army for most of that campaign.”

“Please, call me Harold.” He gestured graciously for them to sit.

“David handles risk advisory for SecCorp. And I’m an area specialist – Eastern Europe – for AKE. You’re here with Aegis Group, if I remember correctly?” Fletcher was already making himself at home, and had signaled the waiter to bring over a glass of madeira.

“Actually, I’m accompanying my husband, John Bishop.” Both Fletcher and Selvig turned to look at John, who had apparently been rendered invisible during the mutual admiration session. “John here is a kidnap and ransom consultant, that’s how we met.”

Selvig’s face registered surprise; Fletcher’s something more akin to disappointment. “Bishop. I don’t recall the name. Did he run one of your Staff Generals in Cyrenaica?”

John was at a loss for words.

“Oh, John doesn’t – he’s not interested in that sort of thing.” Harold interjected, sounding abashed and a little sad, as if this was a conversation they’d had many times in the past.

“Well, that is a shame.” John could feel the judgment and calculation in Fletcher’s eyes. “Mr. Bishop, if you had any idea of what a legend this man is in our circles!”

“I have a feeling,” John murmured, reaching for his glass, “that I’m about to find out.”

***

“Finch, explain.” Dinner had been interminable. Reese had been reduced to sulking in his chair while Fletcher and Selvig peppered their hero with questions, and then spent another two hours exchanging literal war stories.

“I suppose I should have mentioned that another reason I thought it useful to join you was I suspected that David Selvig was also connected to the online war game community of which I am a member.” Finch was busying himself with the computers again as he launched into a short lecture. “Fog of War evolved from early turn based strategy games. Players are primarily military history enthusiasts, who assume the roles of various commanders in past conflicts and run their campaigns assuming the same level of manpower, resources and practical constraint, but with no limitations on strategy or tactics. The system models the outcomes, based on player decisions and then advances the scenario accordingly. It’s quite ingenious.”

“When you say it’s quite ingenious… Finch.” Reese looked at him. “You didn’t build the system, did you?”

Finch blinked. “I didn’t, as a matter of fact. But I do play it regularly, as Harold Cardinal." He looked defensive. “I occasionally need the diversion while waiting for code to compile or a background check to complete.”

“Which still doesn’t entirely explain why you have your own fanboy clique out there.” Reese was pretty sure that Fletcher, at least, was nursing a blossoming man crush.

“As Cardinal, I have participated in some very interesting simulations of previous conflicts, a number of which I have won.” Finch sighed. “I also have a certain fondness and reputation for taking up longshots and lost causes, to see if by making different choices it might be possible to beat the odds and change the historical outcomes.” He briefly closed his eyes, and then opened them. “As you might imagine, it’s something of a hobby of mine.”

***

Things were going smoothly, but for some reason, Reese still felt vaguely irritated. As Bishop, he spent each day attending the same seminars as David Selvig. In truth, some of them were quite interesting – the breakout session on international resourcing of arms and equipment had provided some useful information on using private and commercial channels, and “Body Language in Hostage Negotiation: An Introductory Primer” had given him a number of new insights. In addition, Finch’s minor celebrity had solved the problem of how to keep tabs on Selvig out of session, since his presence attracted a small crowd of game enthusiasts, both Fletcher and Selvig included.

Indeed, as Harold Cardinal, Finch was genial, gregarious and positively avuncular, relaxing in the bar over a decanter of port and holding animated discussions on military history with other conference attendees who played Fog of War. 

The second evening, Reese had lurked in the background, but after being satisfied that Selvig was unlikely to go anywhere, he retired for the night, leaving the line open so that he could hear Finch holding forth on the key importance of battlefield lines of communication, and argue with Fletcher about the pros and cons of defending extended supply lines while he checked his guns and reviewed background reading for the next day. 

The pattern repeated for the third night, except that he was still awake when Finch returned to the suite just after two in the morning. After a few minutes, he went to the door of Finch’s bedroom and knocked.

“Come in.” Finch was sitting on the edge of the bed; he had started undressing for the night. His jacket and waistcoat were hanging on the chair, his tie was loose, and the collar of his shirt undone. He looked up when Reese entered the room. “I apologize if I disturbed you coming in – I know it’s late.”

“I was awake.” Reese breathed out and made a conscious effort to relax his hands at his sides.

“Then is there a problem, Mr. Reese?” Finch was flushed, and might even be tipsy – his hands were slightly unsteady as he removed his glasses and began to polish them.

“Yes.” _I’m inexplicably irritable. I hate the amount of time that you’re spending with your little group of followers, and every time Gerald “Call me Gerry” Fletcher touches your arm to make a point, I have to suppress an urge to punch him in the face._ “I’m not comfortable with this. I need to find a way to remain closer to you – and to Selvig, of course.” 

“I understand.” Finch had slid his glasses back on, but now he peered at Reese over them. He looked – intrigued. “Well, seeing as it’s a bit difficult to include you in conversations concerning the game, perhaps I could invite everyone back here to the suite in the evening? It would make sense, seeing as we’ve all become fast friends, and it would keep Selvig close at hand.” He focused on Reese with a curious intensity, and it was difficult not to read his next words as an open invitation. “Unless, of course – you’d like to learn how to play?”

Reese muttered an excuse, and fled.

***

In the end, saving the number had turned out to be trivially easy. After borrowing his laptop for five minutes to demonstrate an in game troop movement mechanic, Harold was able to use its remote desktop to hack SecCorp’s e-mail server, which allowed them to identify the overly ambitious middle manager who had decided to get ahead by using the services of a hit man to eliminate Selvig. John located the contractor in question on the last day of the conference, cornered him in an elevator, and following an intense discussion sent him packing with a message for his erstwhile employer.

He returned to the suite to find Harold Cardinal holding court in the sitting room, surrounded by several laptops and no less than half a dozen game enthusiasts, including Selvig and Fletcher.

“John!" Harold looked up from his screen. “We were going to run a short campaign for the Battle of Waterloo.” 

“Just Hougoumont through Plancenoit, actually.” Fletcher interjected, brushing shoulders with Harold as he casually leaned across the coffee table to reach the keyboard. “Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, and we’ll be done before morning. Harold, are you planning to start at Le Caillou?” John felt a muscle in his cheek twitch in annoyance.

In the next moment, he had crossed over to the couch, lifted the laptop from Harold’s grasp and handed it to Selvig, while gently propelling him to his feet. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us, gentlemen – I need to have a few words with my husband.”

“Why John, whatever is the matter… ” Harold’s demeanor began to revert to Finch from Cardinal as John gently manhandled him into the hall. “ _Mr. Reese,_ I don’t understand the problem. We’ve dealt with the number, and since the jet won’t be cleared to fly until tomorrow morning, there’s no reason not to spend a few hours relaxing.”

“ _The problem,_ Harold,” John responded in the same urgent undertone “is that you came along to this conference so that we could spend time together as a couple. And right now, that is exactly what I’d like to do.” Harold’s head snapped up, eyes seeking a confirmation that he found in John’s teasing expression.

“Besides,” He added, taking advantage of Harold’s surprise to capture a very thorough kiss, “you made me an offer last night, and I intend to take you up on it.”

***

Everyone in the room had been shocked into silence for a moment when John Bishop, looking menacing and almost murderous, had suddenly loomed out of the shadows and hauled Harold out of the room. After a minute, Selvig put down the laptop he’d been handed and took a few tentative steps towards the door. “Do you think Harold’s coming back? I mean, his husband seemed kind of upset.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Fletcher had refocused on his screen, and was executing the few remaining commands to start the simulation. “He’s promised to run Napoleon and I was hoping to flip a coin with you for Wellington or Blucher.”

Standing in the doorway, Selvig could hear the murmur of quiet but heated discussion, a nascent argument which was interrupted by a distinct thump. Alarmed, he peered over the edge of the open door into the hallway. “Oh. Um, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“What do you mean, he’s not coming back?” Fletcher had appeared next to him. “He’s not going anywhere; this is his suite, and, oh - I say.” Selvig and Fletcher both leaned in unison through the doorway.

The thump had been caused by John Bishop backing Harold against the door to his bedroom, as their interaction remained heated, but with passion of a different kind. Selvig and Fletcher peered into the hallway for the second time just as John was reaching behind Harold to push the door open. He glanced over his shoulder and flashed them a brief, predatory smile. The door slammed shut.

***

Clothing was carelessly discarded across bedroom floor, aside from a single jacket which still hung from the back of the chair in what had been a clearly futile attempt at restraint.

Finch was sitting propped up against the headboard of the bed; sheets rucked around his waist, and a laptop resting on his knees. “So if you are Wellington, your heavy cavalry will begin here.” The glow reflected off his glasses as he indicated a line of cross marks on the screen. “Meanwhile, as Napoleon, I will order Marshal Soult to engage the Prussians – right – here – Mr. Reese, that’s very distracting.”

Reese had rolled onto his side and now hid his smile in Finch’s shoulder as leaned in to drop a second kiss just below the collarbone, where he knew that Harold was ticklish. “A good commander uses every weapon at his disposal, Finch.”

**Author's Note:**

> While I think Reese plays games like Assassin's Creed, I imagine Finch would make a better player of strategy games. I also confess that this story was inspired in a large part by a desire to use the line "Rommel, you magnificent bastard!"


End file.
